Say Good-bye (3 page)

I’m speechless.

I mean, it’s one thing to be able to ask a smiling soap star for an autograph or to order from a waiter using the French that you’ve learned at school.

But what do you say to a girl without any hair?

I hug Yum-Yum to my chest. I’m really not prepared for this.

Then I feel an arm slip around my shoulders. “Don’t worry, Zoe,” Jane says softly, with a reassuring smile. “They’re normal kids like you. They’ve just had some really rotten luck.”

“Yeah,” I whisper.

“Cancer’s a stinking disease,” she adds, “but you can’t catch it from another person. And it doesn’t change these kids in here.” She taps her chest over her heart.

“But their hair…”

Jane chuckles softly. “That’s how I got into this in the first place,” she explains. “I do free hair-styling for chemotherapy patients. And if they want, I help them with wigs till their own hair grows back in. But wigs are uncomfortable for a lot of kids. So they feel better going au naturel.” She winks at me. “You’ll get used to it.”

I smile. But inside I’m thinking,
How could you ever get used to it?

Suddenly Yum-Yum spots a tall skinny kid at the end of the hall. I bite my lip.

Bald head. Shapeless hospital gown. Oh, gosh! At this distance, I can’t even tell if it’s a boy or a girl!

Yum-Yum barks and wriggles in my arms.

“Go ahead,” Jane says. “You can just put him down and let him go.”

I stoop down and release him.

The kid grins and throws a small red ball. As Yum-Yum dashes after it down the hall, I hear
kids squeal and call out his name as they wander out of their rooms. Normal kid sounds. Not what you’d expect in a hospital.

Yum-Yum catches the ball and carries it over to another patient—a young girl who looks about eight.

“Give!” the young girl commands.

Instantly Yum-Yum lays the ball at her feet.

“Good dog!” the girl praises him. She gives his head a good scratching.

“I wish Sneakers would behave like that,” I tell Jane. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s a wonderful dog, and he’s always there for me when I’m sad.”
The way Mom used to be.
“But he sure doesn’t mind me very well.”

“Don’t worry,” Jane says. “He’ll learn. He’s still a puppy. Just give it time, and stick with it. Then maybe one day, you can train Sneakers to do therapy visits, too.”

I roll my eyes. “No way. He’s barely house-broken.”

“Well, you do have to get that down first!” She chuckles.

I follow Jane down to a lounge area. The windows look out onto a pretty garden in front of
the hospital. There are lots of, plants around the room, plus several jigsaw puzzles and a chess set laid out on some tables.

Many of the kids gather around. They’re all different ages, from teenagers to really little kids. Some have hair, some don’t. Some look okay. Others look really sick—pale and thin and tired, like they’ve had the flu or something.

But they all smile at the sight of Yum-Yum.

“Hey, Michael, check it out. That dog looks like a runaway wig!” a teenage boy jokes. I guess he hasn’t seen Yum-Yum here before.

“Huh? Don’t make fun of my main man!” the boy named Michael replies. “Just wait till you see him do his tricks!” He whistles softly and claps his hands. “Yum-Yum! Come here, boy.”

Yum-Yum trots over.

“Sit,” Michael says, and Yum-Yum instantly obeys. Michael grabs a doggie treat from a jar and holds it in the air. “Sit up, Yum-Yum.”

I’m amazed when Yum-Yum stands up on his two hind feet. Michael even gets him to walk a few steps. The kids laugh and clap. So do I.

“Make him roll over!” a girl about my age shouts.

Michael makes a rolling motion with his right hand. “Roll over, Yum-Yum. Roll over.”

Yum-Yum rolls over and over on the linoleum floor.

The kids clap and cheer as if they were at the circus.

“Now watch this,” Michael tells the other boy. “Take a bow, Yum-Yum.”

Michael dips his head.

Yum-Yum sticks out one little paw and bends low over it. He really looks like he’s bowing! “Michael Maltin,” a nurse calls out.

The laughter dies as quickly as if someone had turned off a TV. For a moment, Michael looks tired and much older. “More blood work for Nurse Bennett,” he complains to his buddy. “Yuck.” Then he turns back to Yum-Yum. “See you later, pal.”

Yum-Yum barks, and Michael laughs. “Okay, little buddy. Shake!” He sticks out his hand, and Yum-Yum puts his small paw into it. Michael gives the paw a gentle shake.

When Michael turns back to the nurse, he looks like himself again. “Okay, Dracula,” he tells her dramatically, holding out his arms in a
gesture of mock helplessness. “Do your worst!”

Nurse Bennett just laughs, shakes her head, and leads Michael down the hall.

As the kids line up to shake Yum-Yum’s paw, I turn to Jane. “I can’t believe it. Yum-Yum ought to be on TV! How did you teach him all those things?”

Jane chuckles. “When he was little, I used to hold up treats for him. That’s how he learned to stand on his hind legs. Some of the tricks are things the kids here at the hospital have taught him. But remember, Yum-Yum’s nearly thirteen! So he’s had years of practice.”

A little girl who looks about six or seven comes up to us.

“Hi, Stephanie,” Jane says. “What’s new?”

“My mom brought me some new butterfly clips.” She holds them up proudly for us to see.

“Oh, they’re gorgeous!” Jane coos.

I’m speechless. Her mother brought her hair clips? What kind of mom would do something like that? Poor Stephanie doesn’t have any hair!

Stephanie nods. “Mommy says they’re for when my hair grows back in. She says that’ll be really soon. And she says it will be prettier than ever!”

I nearly blush, I feel so dumb. What kind of
mom would do that? A smart one. She’s giving Stephanie something to look forward to.

Just then Yum-Yum scampers up to Stephanie and licks her leg.

Stephanie squeals with laughter. “Hello, Yum-Yum.” She bends down and gives the little dog a kiss on top of his head. “I don’t have any hair right now,” she tells him. “So you can borrow these if you want.” She looks up at Jane. “Is it okay?” she asks.

“Okay with me,” Jane says. “As long as Yum-Yum doesn’t mind.”

Stephanie plops down on the floor beside Yum-Yum and goes to work. She puts the butterfly clips in the long, silky hair around his ears.

“Gorgeous!” Stephanie pronounces.

I’m amazed that Yum-Yum doesn’t mind. He’s so good with kids.

Stephanie gives him a hug, then she makes a disgusted face. “Yum-Yum, I love you—but you need to brush your teeth!”

Some of the other kids laugh, but I notice that Jane is frowning.

“Maybe it’s that new dog food I’ve been buying,” she says to a nurse. “I think it’s giving him bad breath.”

“Check the ingredients for garlic,” the nurse jokes. “That’s what always does it for me.”

Suddenly Yum-Yum breaks away from the crowd of kids and takes off for a corner of the room.

A girl is sitting there in a wheelchair with her back to the others. A teddy-bear balloon tied to one handle bobs for attention, but the girl doesn’t seem to know it’s there. She’s got a large blue bucket hat tugged down over her brow, shielding her eyes as she stares out the window at nothing. Her thin hands lie forgotten in her lap.

Yum-Yum sits up by her slippered feet and barks at the girl. She doesn’t move. It’s like she doesn’t even hear him.

“What’s wrong with that girl?” I quietly ask Jane.

Jane sighs. “That’s Emma Morgan. Poor kid. They tell me she’s having a hard time of it. We all try to get her to socialize with the other kids, but she just doesn’t seem interested.” Jane smiles wistfully. “Most kids are just naturally hopeful, so even when they get sick with cancer, they roll with the punches pretty well, especially if they have good support. But Emma—she seems
awfully down. Never talks much. Even Michael can’t get her to laugh.”

“That is serious,” I say. I watch her for a moment. “She seems lonesome.”

“That could account for a lot of it,” Jane says. “Apparently her parents are divorced, her mom works full-time, and her brother’s away at college in California, so she’s here by herself for most of the time.” Jane lowers her voice. “I don’t think she hears from her dad much.”

That’s something I can definitely relate to.

“Nurse Bennett told me a neighbor had to bring her in for treatment this time,” she adds.

As I go over to get Yum-Yum, I see the girl’s face reflected in the glass window. She’s looking at me—at my hair. Her brown eyes are large, beautiful … and hopeless.

Just like some of the hurt and scared animals I’ve seen come into the clinic.

I’m learning how to deal with animals like that, but I’m not sure what to do with people.

I put on my best smile, scoop up Yum-Yum, and walk around so Emma can see me. “Hi, I’m Zoe,” I say. “How’re you doing?”

My words seem to hang in the air.

What a dumb thing to say! Of course she’s doing terribly—she’s got cancer!
I try to cover up my goof by laying Yum-Yum in her lap.

“Doesn’t Yum-Yum look cute?” I say. “I just washed and blow-dried his hair … this morning.

Cringe! What’s wrong with me?
Hair, hair, hair. It’s like when they say don’t think about pink elephants—then it’s all you can think about!

It’s not like me to say the wrong thing. It must be nerves.

But Emma doesn’t seem to notice my dumb remarks. Slowly, shyly, she reaches out to stroke Yum-Yum’s soft fur. And when Yum-Yum barks and wags his little tail, Emma actually smiles.

It’s like the sun coming out on a cloudy day.

I can see why, in spite of the sadness, Jane likes to come here.

Maybe now I can get Emma to talk a little. I don’t know what it’s like to have cancer, but I do know what it’s like to feel lonely and miss your mom. And to have a dad who’s totally out of the picture.

I notice a book tucked down beside her thin legs. “So, I see you’ve got a book there,” I begin
awkwardly. “I like to read, too. What are you reading?”

“Um …” Emma looks at the book as if it appeared there by magic. She picks it up, then shrugs and holds it out to me.

I don’t recognize the title, so I open the book. On the title page, someone has quickly scrawled, “To Emma, from Dad.” I flip through the pages and frown. It’s a story about talking bunnies! I can tell by the big type that the book is for a very young reader. But Emma is at least my age. I guess “Dad” doesn’t come around very often if he thinks his twelve-year-old daughter is still reading books like this.

“Oh, this looks interesting,” I fib, trying to be polite.

Emma shoots me a look that says
Liar!
Like she’s developed radar lately for people who don’t tell her the truth.

So I lean forward and look her straight in the eye. “For a first grader,” I say in a goofy voice.

Then something happens—something that feels like a miracle.

Emma actually laughs out loud.

I laugh, too, and Yum-Yum barks, happily wagging his fanlike tail.

“Dads,” she says, rolling her eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Tell me about it,” I agree.

I reach for a chair to drag closer so that I can sit down. Maybe now I can get Emma to talk some.

But then Nurse Bennett calls me. “Sorry, Zoe. It’s time to go.”

Darn! Just when I was getting somewhere! I gently scoop up Yum-Yum from Emma’s lap. “It was nice meeting you,” I say. “We’ll see you again soon.”

But the sun has already gone back behind the clouds.

“Yeah,” Emma says vaguely. She’s facing the window again, staring out at nothing.

As I carry Yum-Yum down the hall, a lot of the kids walk along with us, petting Yum-Yum and telling us good-bye. Yum-Yum barks happily. I feel as if I was just getting comfortable.

I’m quiet as we head down the hall toward the lobby.

“You were great,” Jane tells me. “I know it’s not easy the first time. But they’re terrific kids. And a lot of then aren’t just sick. They’re also far away from home, away from their family and friends.
It really gives them a lift to have folks—and dogs!—visit them.”

“Kind of makes you appreciate …” But I can’t finish the sentence. I’ve got a funny little lump in my throat.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •

When we step out of the hospital, the sun seems to be shining brighter. Or maybe I’m just looking at everything a little bit differently.

I put Yum-Yum down on the sidewalk. He trots along a few steps ahead of us as we walk toward the car.

I watch him, amazed. He’s so well trained, Jane doesn’t even have to use a leash with him. He always stays by her side.

Jane and I are mostly silent on our way to the car. Sometimes that makes me feel nervous around grown-ups, like I need to be thinking up something interesting to say. But it feels okay with Jane. I’m glad she doesn’t try to make small talk.

When we reach the car, I pick up Yum-Yum and get into the passenger side of the front seat. He sits nicely at my feet as I buckle my seat belt. Then I scoop him up into my lap. He sits up tall and
looks like he’s smiling. Panting, he peeks out the side window, as if he’s excited about driving and wants to see where we’re going next. Gran says some dogs hate riding in cars, sometimes because their owners only drive them in cars when they’re taking them to have something painful done at the vet’s office. I can tell Jane takes Yum-Yum with her in the car a lot.

I smile down at the pooch as we drive away. Then I notice something—something around Yum-Yum’s mouth. “Do you have a tissue, Jane? I think one of the kids must have slipped Yum-Yum a messy treat.”

“Sure.” Keeping her eyes on the road, she reaches for her purse on the seat between us and unzips a pocket. “Look in here and see if you see some.”

I pull a tissue out of one of those tiny purse packs, then use it to wipe gently around Yum-Yum’s mouth. “There you go, sweetie. You’re nice and—” I stop when I look at the tissue. It has a small streak of something red on it. And it doesn’t look like food—it looks like blood. Is Yum-Yum hurt?

When we stop at a red light, I lay my hand on Jane’s arm. “Jane, look.”